


Hollow-Point Smile

by AnnaofAza



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Best Laid Proposals Often Go Awry, Detective Castiel, Detective Sam Winchester, Fluff and Angst, Former Detective Dean Winchester, Gen, Kidnapping, M/M, Secret Identity
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-06
Updated: 2015-04-28
Packaged: 2018-03-20 19:07:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3661590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnaofAza/pseuds/AnnaofAza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“The world isn’t like Batman, Dean,” Castiel says, and hears his boyfriend sigh, but they’ve been through this millions of times.</p><p>Castiel has a nemesis in the local vigilante, but he's determined not to let that ruin his special evening with his boyfriend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

A car horn blares through the air just as Castiel just barely passes through the red light. The driver makes sure to look him in the eye and give him the finger, yelling, “Hey, asshole, watch the road!”

“It was turning yellow when I was going!” Castiel roars back. He normally doesn’t engage in road rage, but this whole day had been the most _stressful_ —Naomi breathing down his neck, Sam spilling coffee all over his files, the Hunter escaping his cell _again—_

He pulls into the quiet little suburban neighborhood, slowing down as two kids dash across the street. Forcing himself to breathe more calmly, the detective glances at the dashboard. Six o’ clock. He’s _late._ Great. Just when he promised his boyfriend he’d actually make it this time…

It’s all the _Hunter’s_ fault.

In almost record time, Castiel yanks the keys out of the ignition, slams the car door behind him, vaults onto the porch, and practically crashes into the front room. “Sorry, I’m late, I got caught up—“

“It’s okay, I actually got here myself,” his boyfriend calls from the hallway. He emerges, hands still fumbling at a tie, and Castiel’s anger dissipates as he leans in to kiss the wonderful Dean Winchester. He has a smudge of oil smeared across his nose, presumably from the garage, and with his hair painstakingly combed over and the tie that matches his eyes, Dean looks _—_ he would kill Castiel for saying this— _cute._ “We can still make our reservations if we hurry, and—" His boyfriend slips a palm over Castiel’s cheek, then freezes. “Cas, is that _blood?”_

The detective looks down at his uniform for inspection, but Dean takes his hand off Castiel’s face and holds it up. His palm is smeared with blood and grit. “It’s all over your face!”

Castiel grabs a tissue from the coffee table and begins wiping Dean’s hand, tenderly, then moves to his face. “I’m all right, Dean, it looks worse than it actually is. The Hunter gave me the slip, and I ran into the door in my haste—stupid mistake, really—“

“Do you need to go to the hospital?” Dean trails after him as Castiel steps into their bedroom, quickly slipping out of his uniform and hastily yanking a white button-down shirt off the hanger. The dark blue khakis can stay; they look serviceable enough. “Cas, come on, what if you have a concussion or something?”

“I’m fine, Dean.” Smiling at his boyfriend’s concern, Castiel finishes doing up the last of the buttons and slips on his tan trenchcoat, the one Dean gave him as a joke for Christmas, something relating to a comic character Dean had a crush on in his youth. The bulge in one of the pockets gently knocks against his hip. Hoping Dean won't notice, Castiel quickly checks to see if it's still in there, then relaxes. Good.

“We’re just going to have a nice night out," Castiel continues. "Your brother offered to cover for me so that I’m not on call for our anniversary.” Sam knew how important this was to Castiel, and even though their small budget didn’t allow for many luxuries, Castiel had been secretly saving up for the nicest restaurant in town on this very night.

It has to be perfect, and _nothing_ is going to ruin it, not even a reckless, irritating vigilante like the Hunter…

* * *

Once they sit down and get their drinks, Castiel immediately regrets this plan. He’s not ready for this. The little speech he planned for weeks is completely lost. Maybe he should have done something simpler, a picnic or a drive-thru—no, no, that’s so _cheap_ —

“Cas? What’s the news?”

Castiel jolts in his seat. “What?”

His boyfriend smiles tentatively at him, lowering his menu to look Castiel in the face. “You’ve been closing your eyes this whole time and muttering something. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. I just…have something to tell you.”

“Okay. Lay it on me.”

“Um. Well—“

The waiter returns, plunking their drinks in front of them, and reaches for his pad. “Excuse me, sirs, are you ready to order?”

Castiel gratefully nods, then asks for the first thing that catches his eye when he glances down at the menu for the first time. Dean orders the meat lasagna, and before he can open his mouth, Castiel blurts out: “So, how was the garage?”

“Good. Quiet.” Dean shrugs, looking at him suspiciously. “How was work?”

“The worst ever,” Castiel groans, taking his drink and simply holding it between his hands. “We got a tip-off about the Hunter talking with Lucifer's replacement—Crowley—and managed to apprehend him. Not Crowley—he got away, but _finally,_ after Naomi on my case and him just…slipping through my fingers, I get him. The Hunter.”

Dean nods, letting Castiel ramble: “We had the Hunter in the holding cell, and as soon as Charlie gets ready to scan his fingerprints, he kicks open the door an _imbecile_ left unlocked, grabs his weapons, and runs off! Just like that! Sam tried to stop him, of course, but—“ Castiel waves a hand in the air, “he lost him, and as you know, I made contact with a door.” Castiel ruefully laughs. “I bet you’re happy.”

“Not about the door,” Dean protests. “But, well—you know how I feel.”

“The world isn’t like _Batman,_ Dean,” Castiel says, and hears his boyfriend sigh, but they’ve been through this millions of times. “The law works a certain way, and we can’t have vigilantes deciding on their whim on who gets punished and how, judge and jury. The Hunter may have good intentions at heart, but he’s trouble. Naomi says—“

“Naomi this, Naomi that. Cas, he _helps_ the force, puts all sorts of criminals away that slip through the cracks—“

“The law is the law, Dean. It’s slow, but it _happens_.”

“Not always. And besides,” Dean cocks his head and cheekily winks at Castiel, “say what you want about the Hunter, but he gets the job done. Fast.”

The waiter returns with their food just as Castiel begins to protest. Dean eagerly picks up his fork, and they both clink their silverware together, like a toast, and begin to eat in silence.

Halfway through his dinner, Castiel says, “If you were still on the force, we would have caught him ages ago.”

Dean suddenly frowns, ducking his head. “Don’t be too sure about that.”

“Dean,” Castiel places a hand over his boyfriend’s clenched fist on the table, “I miss being partners with you. I know—“

“Can we not talk about this tonight?” Dean asks, sliding his hand away. “I left for my own reasons, and besides,” he laughs self-deprecatingly, “I was no good. After Alastair—I just—I just fell apart, Cas, and so many criminals just got away under my watch—“

“It wasn’t your—“

“Look, there’s apple pie crumble on the menu,” Dean says, eyes firmly on the dessert menu. “Or do you want to split some chocolate mousse—“

Castiel tries again: “Dean—“

“Cas, enough. Just…let’s have a nice dinner, okay?”

Castiel puts the matter aside, but it's still something that's been gnawing on them both for a long time. Dean and Sam Winchester followed in the footsteps of their father, becoming two of the youngest detectives on the force, putting away _Yellow Eyes,_ of all criminals, during their second year on the squad. When Castiel was transferred over to the force a year ago, he noticed that Dean was quick on his feet and eager to dole out justice with many endearing wisecracks and sun-blinding smiles. But something changed when he and Castiel, who were living together only after a few weeks, managed to track down and apprehend someone they'd been looking for a long time: Alastair.

The criminal escaped his holding cell with the help of a treacherous officer and took Dean hostage for an agonizing four months. Castiel had been frantic, combing through the city, and when he and Sam burst into the dingy warehouse, seeing Dean didn’t alleviate any of their worries. The older Winchester’s eyes looked awful: dull and uncaring and utterly, utterly broken.

For a long time after, Dean smiled less and considerably went downhill. A series of losses on the force—Pamela, Jo, Ellen—seemed to make it worse, and after he and Sam put away the major drug lord, Lucifer, behind bars, Dean quit and picked up a position at Singer’s Salvage Yard. By some miracle, Castiel convinced Dean to get help after he had a panic attack in the Impala when _Cheek to Cheek_ started to play on the radio.

Tessa, Dean’s doctor, said that Dean was the kind of person who needed to be busy. _He shouldn’t go back to the force if he doesn’t want to. As long as he has a daily routine…Cas, you and Sam and Bobby are the ones keeping him afloat. Any more pressure like that, and he’d pop, do something crazy…_

“So.” Dean’s looking up at him now, and Castiel forces himself to snap out of his thoughts. “You said earlier that you wanted to tell me something?”

Castiel beams, then hesitates again. Dean smiles at him, snaking his arm around a plate, and takes Castiel’s hand.

 _Wait for the right time to strike_ is a phrase common enough around the precinct, and Castiel knows that it’s not necessarily for _this_ context, but what if? What if Dean isn’t ready for something like this? Castiel is certainly ready, ready to commit his life to a man he feels as if he’s known for decades instead of less than three years. But what if this is too soon? What if this, out of all their disagreements and arguments, makes Dean back away, once and for all?

What if Dean leaves?

“Dean,” he starts to say, slowly, “we’ve been together for only months, but I feel that we share a—a profound bond, if you will, and you can say no, but will you—“

An explosion rocks the restaurant, and screams pierce the air. Ears ringing, Castiel tackles a startled Dean to the ground and forces him underneath the table when the windows shatter all around them. Glass hits the floor in a crescendo, and something softly thumps against the table leg. Castiel ignores it in favor of curling around Dean and trying to figure out what to do. All around the room, there’s screeching feedback issuing from the indoor speakers. Dean slaps hands over his ears, grimacing.

Castiel’s phone begins ringing shrilly, and Sam’s number flashes across the screen.

“The Hunter,” Castiel snarls immediately upon answering.

“Cas, it’s not the Hunter!” Sam shouts, over the whine of sirens. “It’s Crowley, and he’s near— _at—_ the restaurant—are you okay—“

Castiel nods, forgetting Sam can’t see him. “I’m fine, Sam, and so is Dean. What do you mean it’s Crowley—“

“Attention!” A voice—loud, British, and obnoxious—echoes throughout the room, and Dean, in Castiel’s hold, stills. “Will the lovely Detective Castiel Novak and his bride-to-be stand up?”

“That’s him,” Castiel mutters. “Sam, get a team here, _immediately._ I’ll see what I can do for now.”

“If you’re not the _darling_ couple, please sit down. Or lie down. I don’t care. Come on out, both of you, or I have one of my men defuse another bomb. I think there’s one near the local hospital?”

“Cas, we have to get out there.” Dean begins to get to his feet, heedless of Castiel’s protests. His eyes are drawn to a knife on the floor. Not one of the dinner ones, but something familiar…

“Come on out. I see someone emerging from the table. Could that be one of you lot?”

 _I have to follow Dean,_ Castiel thinks, but the image won’t leave him. A rough, crude handle. Cruel, jagged edges. A strange, five-point symbol.  _I’ve seen this before…_

“It’s me you want,” Dean says above him, voice clear and sharp. It’s a tone Castiel hasn’t heard for over a year. This is Dean’s _fuck with me, and I’ll fuck with you_ voice. Dean. Brave, defiant Dean. “Leave Castiel out of this.”

“Dean, Dean, Dean. Well-dressed. I have to admit that if you weren’t such a law-abiding prick, I might just stroll on over and see what the fuss is all about.”

_That knife._

“Can it. Just leave everyone alone. I surrender, you piece of double-crossing shit.”

_Of course! Sam took it from him, but he filched it again…_

Crowley laughs, nasally and obnoxiously. “Me? Double-crossing? My _dear—_ well, I won’t deny it, but weren’t _you_ going to back out of our little arrangement? Hmm? Luckily, I ditched you before I could be locked up myself. Prison’s not my cup of tea, I’m afraid.”

_The Hunter’s knife._

“If I come with you and explain, you’re not touching anyone else. You hear? Deal? I hear you like those.”

_Dean is the Hunter._

It makes sense. Their arguments about the city’s justice system. Sam, one of the most talented on the team, suddenly clumsily destroying evidence and tripping during the chases. The same body type. The crimes happening whenever they’re not together. Crolwy’s familiarity with Dean. A lot of little things. A lot of _obvious_ things.

“No tricks, Winchester, and you might be able to attend your wedding in one piece.”

But Dean—Dean’s still the same man he loves, the same man who kisses him when Castiel comes home from work, the same man who laughs at his horribly-packed jokes, the same man who curls up beside him at night and makes breakfast the next morning. The same man who put away hundreds of criminals, stood up for what he believed in, fought against Alastair, cared so much about the force he considered family. The same man who’s been Castiel’s partner, friend, rock, and love.

_Do I care that he’s the Hunter?_

_No,_ Castiel decides.

Barely missing a knock to the head against the underside of the table, Crowley leaps up as Dean finishes his walk across the room. Over Dean’s shoulder, Crowley’s eyes widen, then his face slowly relaxes as he takes Dean’s hand, as if helping him into a carriage. The drug lord winks. “I’ll have him back by midnight, sweetheart.”

Dean turns, startled, and Crowley throws down something in his palm. Thick, black smoke explodes in plumes, and everyone throws themselves to the ground, arms covering faces. Several people cough, but Castiel forces his way to the stage, eyes tearing.

“Dean, no!” Castiel yells, but it’s too late.

They’re both gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Blame "Bulletproof Heart" for this.


	2. Chapter 2

**One Year Ago**

“Please,” Dean begged, eyes still closed. “Please, don’t. Please, don’t.”

Castiel leapt up from the rickety chair at the sound of his voice, uncertainly fumbling for the right place to put his hand without frightening Dean. He settled on touching Dean’s forearm, through the thin hospital gown, already damp with sweat. “Dean,” he reassured, “Dean, I’m here, and your brother’s in the cafeteria. Do you want me to call him?”

Green eyes stared unseeing at the ceiling, and arms futilely struggled against the ties that bound him to the bed. “Please let me go, please, I’ll do anything—“

Pushing the red call button near Dean’s bed, Castiel gently shook Dean’s shoulder. “Dean, Dean, I’m here. It’s me, Castiel. Please, tell me what you want.”

“Untie me, I said yes, don’t leave me here again…”

A nurse rushed in, and Castiel breathed a sigh of relief. “Can you undo the ties? He’s panicking—“

“Sir, he tried to attack us the last time—“

“He can’t, he’s too weak, and he thinks he’s still…there.” Dean, behind them, fought his restraints, breaths shallow and short. He was still pleading with Alastair—that _monster—_ to untie him, let him go, to spare names Castiel didn’t know. What could he have gone through in four months in the hands of such a psychotic monster? Castiel should have neverlet Dean guard that night, should have realized Uriel's suspicious activities sooner, should have  _protected_ his partner and stayed by his side. This was all his fault, the root of how Dean got into such a near-fatal situation...

“I’m not sure if—“

“Let him go,” a voice ordered, and both the nurse and Castiel turned to see Sam standing at the doorway, displaying his badge with a grim twist to his mouth. “I’ll accept responsibility for all the consequences.”

“I will, too,” Castiel added, and glancing at the two men, the nurse nodded, nervously unbuckling the straps. Dean’s fists clenched, then dug into the sheets, his face tight with pain. But instead of sighing in relief, the other man seemed to panic more: “Don’t make me do this, don’t—“

“Dean, you have to wake up. You’re safe, we’re here,” Sam reassured him, and impulsively, Castiel reached for Dean’s hand, squeezing it. Realizing that he probably shouldn’t have done that—what if he threw Dean into another panic?—Castiel tried to pull away, but instead, the other man clenched Castiel's fingers, gripping him tightly. Dean then seemed gain a little more clarity, blinking slowly at the bare rooms, the tubes, and the beeping heart monitor.  Castiel watched as Dean's eyes flickered to Sam, disbelieving, then to him. 

“Sam? Cas? Where…”

“You’re in the hospital, Dean. You were…” Castiel had to swallow a lump in his throat before finishing, “you were in surgery, then sleeping for a long time.”

"How long?" 

Sam's voice was quiet. "Long enough to wonder if you'd ever wake up." 

Dean shook his head, winced briefly at the pain, and struggled to sit up. "No, I mean, how long was I..."

Castiel said, "Four months." 

“And Alastair—“

“He’s dead,” Sam said coldly. Castiel shivered, still remembering the look on the younger Winchester’s face when he’d backed Alastair up the wall and stabbed him with the same scalpel the man used to torture Dean. Alastair had collapsed, with a laugh on his lips, and as the backup team swarmed in, Dean was barely breathing, blood trickling on the ground. It had been the most awful sight, and Castiel remembered the wetness on his palms as he cradled Dean's head, red matting the dirty-blond hair. 

“No!” Dean now suddenly cried out, eyes wide. “No, Sam, Alastair, he’s still out there—“

“Dean, no, he’s dead,” Castiel tried to protest, but Dean was full-on shouting now, bringing in the heavy footfalls of doctors rushing towards the room: “He’s alive, I saw him, you can’t kill him—“

“Sam stabbed him in the heart, Dean, he can’t hurt you any more—“  

“You don’t understand, Cas,” Dean begged, just as the first doctor reached the room. “Cas, he’s not dead, he can come after you and Sam, Cas, listen to me, he’s not—“

Someone inserted a needle into Dean’s arm, and with a final, pained whimper, Dean’s eyes began to flutter, and his fingers in Castiel’s grip slackened.

“He can’t hurt you anymore, Dean,” Castiel whispered, still holding onto the other man’s hand. “He’s gone. You’re safe.”

* * *

Alastair, it turned out, _was_ dead—but over fifty miles from the warehouse, a few weeks after Dean had been discharged from the hospital. The cause of death had been from a stab wound—that was not Sam’s. That same day, Dean had come from the garage, shivering and shaking. Castiel had wrapped a warm blanket over the man’s shoulders and brought him tea, thinking it was another of Dean’s episodes. Dean hadn’t responded to any of Castiel's gentle prodding, so he’d called Bobby to see if something had happened at work. The older man had been strangely vague and only told Castiel to keep talking to Dean, that he would come to himself in time.

Now, Castiel wonders what other clues he’d missed, and how long Dean had been The Hunter. All of these swirl in the back of his mind, as the worrying thoughts take over. How did Crowley find out? What was he going to do to Dean? The ring box is a heavy weight in his pocket, and Castiel can barely focus on Sam’s hurried report to Naomi over the phone.

“…And Dean’s been taken hostage by Crowley,” Sam finishes. “We need to track Dean as soon as possible, preferably now, and a backup team when we go after them—“

“No,” Naomi says.

Both of the men freeze, exchanging startled glances. 

“What do you mean, ‘no’?” Castiel demands.

“Castiel,” his captain sighs, “you’re far too attached to this case—“

“Dean is not a _case_ —“

“And after the Raphael incident? Don’t forget that you were on probation, and we graciously welcomed you back after…well, I hardly need to remind you, don’t I?”

Guilt squirms in Castiel’s stomach, as Sam loyally snarls, “That’s in the _past,_ Naomi, and we have to save Dean—“

“Who’s been the Hunter we’ve been looking for?” At the twin gasps, Naomi sighs, rather irritably. “Boys, Crowley is our CI. I _know_.”

“Then why didn’t you say anything?” Castiel demands angrily. All this time, his superior _knew,_ driving him to capture The Hunter and put him behind bars…but  _Crowley?_ Since when had Crowley been their informant? How could they have trusted the likes of him?

“Because I knew you’d never agree if you knew it was your… _fiancé_ —" Naomi spits out the word like poison, “and if Sam knew if it was his brother. You two are our best detectives, and the only ones who were capable of bringing him to justice were you and Sam.”

“And what did you think would happen if we caught him, then found out his identity?” Sam conveniently leaves out the part in which he knew the entire time; Castiel would have to interrogate him about _that_ later.

Naomi snorts. “It would have been too late. Every authority in this city wants The Hunter behind bars, and you can be sure that the process for his punishment would be sped up. What were you planning, breaking him out? Then _you’d_ be charged with what? Conspiracy, maybe, if you’re unlucky…”

“Well, we’re going,” Castiel snaps. “Like it or not. Crowley will kill him—“

“And one less thing for the city and this department to deal with,” Naomi responds. “But if you two are going, you might as well leave your badges at my desk, right now, because—“

Sam angrily hangs up, then begins frantically typing something in his phone. “Charlie,” he explains Castiel. “She can track Dean if he still has his phone on him, or his knife—“

“I have it,” Castiel says guilty, holding it up. “That’s how I found out Dean was…you know.” He rotates the blade in his hand, watching the streetlights catch on the jagged edge. Something about it bothers him. Dean was quick and efficient when on the force, and remembering camera footage that managed to catch The Hunter in action, it appeared that Dean hadn’t lost that. But why a knife? Dean was an expert in firearms, and he hardly ever missed a single target. Castiel had no idea where Dean learned to handle blades. 

“Why not use a gun?” Castiel wonders out loud. There had been no signs of torture of the bodies The Hunter killed, so why put himself in unnecessary danger?

“We haven’t found a way to kill them with a regular gun,” Sam says distractedly, tapping out another message.

Castiel pauses, confused. “A…regular gun?”

“Yeah. Okay, Charlie says we can track him; Dean has his phone on him. Did you drive here?”

“Yes,” Castiel answers, leading the way. The keys are still in his pocket, so he quickly fishes them out and fumbles at the lock. “But what did you mean by a ‘regular’ gun?”

Sam quickly slides into the passenger seat, eyes still on the blinking screen. “Well, Bobby says that there’s the Colt, but it’s been missing for years, so we just use the knife if exorcisms don’t work.”

He’s officially lost. “Dean's boss? The Colt? Exorcisms?”

“Uh, yeah?” Sam finally looks up from his phone, annoyance clearly written across his face. "Uh, Cas? Did you start the engine?"

“Excuse me,” Castiel says slowly. He notices that he hasn't even put on his seatbelt, but this conversation is suddenly getting utterly confusing. “But you use exorcisms for…vampires, right? Or demons?”

“Demons exist.”

Castiel stares at Sam.  “This is no time for practical jokes.”

Sam takes one look at him, and sighs. “Maybe it’s best if I drive.”


End file.
